


Inhibitor/Catalyst

by shinodabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The things we do to feel alive."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhibitor/Catalyst

People learn to appreciate John after they encounter Sherlock alone. It is as if Sherlock strips pieces of themselves away, piece by piece, laying out every flaw they’ve tried so hard to cover with positive words and plastered smiles. He tears them open with little more than a glance, and regards their trembling, shocked bodies with cool indifference, unaware of the grief and discomfort he inflicts upon them. Without John there to place a hand on his shoulder, to interject with a stuttered word, Sherlock would keep going, picking out every graspable part of them until they begged him to stop. (Sherlock would, if they asked nicely. He’s not a monster. He’s just better than all of them. So much better.)

John’s the nice one. He says “Excuse me,” “I’m sorry for your loss,” and “Goodbye.” He states his name, and Sherlock’s. He makes sure to add “please” and “thank you” and a lot of other things Sherlock doesn’t, forgets to, doesn’t bother with, or can’t. People like John. John, for some reason he cannot quite pinpoint, likes Sherlock. So he steps between people and Sherlock, and does what he can. And, sometimes, he steps between Sherlock and Sherlock because it needs to be done.

“Promise me you’ll stop,” John says when things go too far, and Sherlock ignores him.

Sherlock doesn’t stop. Cases are not people. They do not think, breathe, sleep, or eat. They do not have feelings. They present themselves to Sherlock and Sherlock lays them wide open, deduces every last bit of information that he can from them before solving them. Cases are his lifeblood, his purpose. He can’t give it up, no matter how difficult, no matter how many people get hurt, no matter if he gets hurt. Sherlock will run himself into the ground in order to solve a case. He will die trying. He does not perceive when he has offended a person, crossed a boundary, or committed some form of social taboo – he cares little if he does – and John is useful in that regard because he can easily placate the temper that Sherlock provokes. But with cases? John has no right to tell Sherlock when he has gone too far. There is never a step far enough – not until the mystery is solved, until the secrets are outed. He’ll not stop. He’ll never stop. No hand on his shoulder, sigh from behind his back, or disappointed hang of John’s head will stop him.

But, for a moment, Sherlock will pause. He will pause to aim a scathing comment straight at John’s heart, or to explain why John and his tiny, little, normal brain will never understand, but these words will be forgiven by the moment’s end, for Sherlock knows that John knows that there is no other way for them to keep on going. They are all implicated in this high-stakes game Moriarty has initiated, and they’re all more than happy to play along.

Three dead in the space of five hours. Blood. Tears. And his laughter. Invitations to danger, all of it. Invitations that he accepted. Because he’s sick. He’s so sick and tired. Sick, tired, and bored. Nothing ever happens to them. Not since the last time.

The night after the fourth and final body was found (the killer being apprehended that afternoon), there was a fire in a block of flats in central London not far from Baker Street. It was a relatively simply blaze to control. When the firefighters checked the building for survivors, they came up to a loft (number 21) and in its centre was an effigy of London’s Master Detective, dressed in one of her Doctor’s jumpers. Not even Anderson was amused.

It’s all a game of numbers, Moriarty would tell him. Numbers are everywhere – and they are always predictable, falling into patterns. He’d studied life’s patterns well enough to know what came next. The trouble was, Sherlock didn’t. Sherlock saw in steps. Only steps ahead. Sherlock struck matches when Moriarty was placing charges.

 _Yes_ , Moriarty tells him. _Go on_.

 _I’m on_ _fire_ , Sherlock had bragged. (“Oh no, dear. Not yet.” )

Sherlock calmly writes down his answer to the final problem as the Professor patiently waits. It isn’t long before the detective hands over the slip of paper and Moriarty rolls it up without reading it. He slips it into the neck of the bottle and sets the tip on fire. “Malatov,” he cheerfully toasts, and throws the cocktail through the window. Forensics will piece together the fuse, bring it back from the dead, and read its words. Who knows what they’ll make of it. “ _Berakah_ ,” Sherlock responds and runs into the burning building.

The things we do to feel alive.

 

“Promise me you’ll stop,” John said, even though they both knew it was a hopeless plea.

“I promise.” Sherlock smiled unconvincingly, absently touching the corner of his palm where the bandage had become loose.

(“Here we are: the dark and the light. Ha! Yes. We both know I’m joking, of course. There’s no light. Only . . . shaded windows. Oh, allegories are fun, aren’t they? All those levels of meaning – and what’s the end result? Hours wasted reading words on a page. Do you feel any better after reading all of that, dear? Do you feel like you’ve accomplished anything at all?”) No. (“There is no bigger picture. There are only moments. What do you want from this one? Do you want to play?”) Oh god, yes.


End file.
